


Love Inside

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: Quid Pro Quo [9]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Wade Wilson Breaking the Fourth Wall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 09:59:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19354705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Nate sucks at being on time. Frank sucks at not panicking when threatened with socializing. Wade knew those things before getting invested in throwing a Christmas party, and figures a good mope is in order.





	Love Inside

**Author's Note:**

> AKA: The GUNTP Christmas Spectacular!

It’s really not all that surprising to Wade when Nate’s the only one who shows up, and him two hours late.

Actually, it _is_ a little surprising. He’d really expected no one to show up at all, because that’s like, the peak of this particular gag, right? Lonely guy has a ton of friends but they’re all flakes or busy or work on Christmas doing _airport runs_ , so lonely guy thinks he’ll have company and ends up sitting alone drinking his own over-spiked (and frankly disgusting) eggnog and contemplating the virtues of a holiday suicide when it won’t be permanent anyway.

Yeah. Peak comedy.

“For a guy who’s whole, like, _thing_ is time travel, you waste a bunch of it being fucking late,” Wade says, watching his breath steam the air, kicking his legs against the side of the building. Tenants weren’t supposed to go on the roof, part of the contract, but judging by the laundry lines stretched on one side and the various bottles and bits of trash littered everywhere, it was one of those rules no one followed and no one cared to enforce.

What were they going to do to him if they decided to crack down now, anyway? Kick him out? Who gives a shit.

Nate settles on the edge of the wall beside him, one leg on the roof and the other folded across the ledge, so he’s facing Wade instead of looking out at the city. It’s cold, and Wade’s wearing his best ugliest Christmas sweater and a pair of superbly kitsch leggings with a red and white candy cane pattern overlaid with sprigs of what Wade was pretty sure was holly. The overall effect was a sort of disastrous ugly, sort of the place Wade lived, stylewise, but not exactly warm.

A hand drops over his, warm and heavy and he lets Nate lift his hand and hold it because it doesn’t rightly fucking matter and if Nate wants to pretend that lovey-dovey is _normal_ for them, Wade’s willing to call that his present.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Nate says softly, and he sounds enough like he means it that Wade has to look at him.

The thing about Nate and his stupid, stupid face is that it’s not just handsome.

It is, that, it’s all the action-hero, square-jaw, rugged bad boy kind of good looks. Probably a regular pretty boy when he was younger, roughened now by stress and age, scarred by war and close calls; he’s maybe not what the teen magazines would be rushing to swoon over, but no one’s going to say he’s not hot without their pants catching fire.

If he was just handsome, Wade could deal with it. Wade’s dogshit ugly now, but he was hot once upon a time, and he’s forgotten a lot of things but he hasn’t forgotten that. Hot doesn’t mean anything. Hot doesn’t put that gentle heat in your eyes, hot doesn’t make that infuriating little line between the brows crease deeper like you’re trying to communicate something but can’t find the words. Hot doesn’t make you honest, or open, or sweet.

No one’s ever looked at Wade the way Nate does, like there’s no words to say the things he’s thinking, and it disarms Wade every fucking time.

Easier with the mask on, because you can excuse a lot of that _smitten_ bullshit as just plain ol’ confusion. The mask obscures a lot and it’s easier for most people to stomach the sight of him, but he’d come up here to smoke and maybe take the express route to street level, so he hadn’t worn the mask.

“Yeah, well,” Wade grumbles, flicking the half-smoked cigarette out to free fall, “You ‘n everybody else. Oh wait, you’re the only one who’s gonna bother showing. Which means you can’t be late, cuz it ain’t a party till you’re here.”

Wade can feel Nate thinking that over, braces himself for whatever disgusting, fortune cookie bullshit about acceptance and how people would have shown up if they could, the excuses people make for each other. He’s pretty sure if Nathan says ‘I’m sorry’ again, he’ll lose his goddamn grip and one of them will definitely eat pavement.

“I was surprised you invited Frank,” Nate says instead, and Wade frowns, knocking his heel against the cold brick. Inviting Frank had been a stupid idea -- Wade’s not interested in playing house, not really, but it was… nice, the way Frank kind of relaxed and snarked back, the dry, brittle wit he sometimes got. He obviously wouldn’t fit with the rest of Wade’s assorted buddies though.

Actually, Wade can’t really imagine Frank fitting in with _any_ group. He kind of makes himself a one-man-against-the-world sort of deal, and seems happy to stay that way.

“He couldn’t fuck off faster after I asked, so that was probably a mistake, huh?” He makes it sound blasé, like remembering how quickly Frank had come up with an excuse to leave the goddamn _country_ didn’t sting. He should have known better, but when did he ever. “I would have thought Dom would have found time though. Or Dopinder… Colossus… _somebody_. I ordered so much Chinese food -- that one place up the block you like, the one with the good soup.”

Nate’s hand moves from holding on to Wade’s hand to rubbing at his shoulder, bracing. “I know you put a lot of effort into this. I saw the apartment is clean again.”

“It sucks,” Wade says, venomous under his breath.

“It does. But you know… sometimes things just don’t work out, Wade.”

Sometimes things just don't work out. Yeah, doesn’t Wade know it.

Sometimes you get your fiance killed the same day she told you she wanted to have kids. Sometimes you try to do right by a scared, abused kid, and get you _and_ the kid thrown in high-security mutant jail, where you'll die of cancer and he'll have to live with being held prisoner without any evidence of trail for the crime of having superpowers, except then some Terminator-wannabe-asshole shows up and breaks both your spine and the collar inhibiting your healing factor. Sometimes you fight that Robocop-knockoff and accidentally set the kid on a path that leads him to working with an incredibly cool but super dangerous dude who totally supports his murderous revenge fantasy, which means he grows up to be a villain who kills Robocop's family.

Sometimes shit _does_ work out -- sometimes you team up with mini-Terminator and a very lucky lady who thinks she has superpowers and you stop that kid from killing anyone and you sorta die but the time travelling fuck hits redo and manages to keep you from biting the big one. Sometimes you look at that time traveling fuck, with his shiny, shiny metal arm and his glowy eye and his fuckboy haircut, and you think, hey, this guy cares about me, even though I'm a fuck up. Sometimes you offer to let him move in with you when you go looking for a new place, because he's a time traveler stranded out of time and everyone needs a place to crash.

But again, sometimes shit just doesn't work out. Sometimes you have a real good thing going, where he tolerates your murder itches and your suicide itches and your inability to give a fuck about keeping the shared spaces clean, he tolerates these things for god knows what reason and he also asks you to help him with his mission to unfuck the future. Sometimes he makes you feel like you have a goddamn purpose in the world, he makes you feel like you really have the potential to be _good_ , even if everyone else just sees a murderer and a freak.

So sometimes, he takes you to China and asks you to play translator and backup, if things go sideways, and you go because otherwise he'll be out of the country for weeks and you get bored and twitchy when he's away too long. But sometimes the people he thinks he's supposed to be helping are just as bad as the guys he's trying to get rid of, sometimes those guys try to double cross Mr. Mind-Reader-Future-Boy and in the process sometimes those bad guys put kids in danger trying to use them as human shields, so sometimes you do the easy thing and you shoot those bad guys until they’re dead.

Sometimes your fuckbuddy roommate yells at you for fucking hours, fighting you like he _knows_ you, in your face, twisting every goddamn thing you say as he slams through the apartment and grabs his shit. Sometimes he looks at you and he looks so tired and so disgusted and he says, "Call me when you grow up", and sometimes he storms out with nothing but a duffel bag and his big, giant, glorious gun, and he fucking moves out, just like that.

So yeah. Sometimes things don't work out.

Wade doesn't like being bitter about shit that doesn't matter. He's very, very good at it, though.

"You _left_ ," Wade says, dangling his hands between his thighs and looking down at the crawl of lights on the street under his feet. Something in his chest aches over it, almost a whole fucking year later, and he knows it's stupid. They've made up in a hundred ways even if they never talked about the blowout. Hell, Nate even still has a room in the apartment, Wade respects the space the same way he would if Nate were still living in it.

It doesn’t matter that Nate can’t read his mind. Wade can throw him with pop culture references, but often times he lands on his feet even then. Talking about their own history, even with that sharp of a non sequitur, rarely gives him pause. It was one of the things Wade liked about having him around all the time, the way he could follow Wade’s twisty line of thought.

"I thought you’d want space after everything," Nate says, the hand on Wade's shoulder still steady and warm. Nate's gotta be getting cold. Wade wonders if it hurts, that zippered seam of metal and flesh, when it's cold like this. "You seemed to be happier when you didn't have to put up with me making you clean up your shit."

Nate has a way of making his jokes so sincere, seeded with meaning, like he's trying to make Wade smile while saying something important, except Wade is never sure what the important thing is. All he knows for sure is he misses the asshole, he misses him all the fucking time. It's hard, missing people all the time.

"You know, Frank thinks..." Nate trails off and Wade has to look at him again, see the way he's looking out over the city now, squinting the way he does when he's woolgathering, trying to find just the right words. Wade imagines it's frustrating to him, dealing with someone he can't just mind-read out what they want to hear. He has to work with Wade, and that’s something no one (including and especially _Wade_ ) wants to deal with. "Frank thinks we're good together. Me and you."

"He also wants to wear a dog collar and call you 'sir'," Wade points out, brows drawn up, trying to crush the eager part of him that rises up in hope. "I don't know that his is the opinion we should lean into here."

When Nate tries not to laugh, the corners of his eyes wrinkle up and he sort of squints, mouth pressed into a tight little line to trap any laughs that bubble up anyway. He looks fucking stupid, and way cuter than a man as good at murder as he is should be allowed to look.

"No, I mean... he thinks we're dating," Nate says thoughtfully, looking away from Wade again, speaking out at the city. "He thinks it's... he thinks we're this 'good thing' he's getting in the middle of."

Wade doesn't exactly know where this is going. He knows where he wants it to go -- he can think of _several_ fun directions it could go in, actually -- but what Nate's trying to steer him to, he hasn't got a clue. It would be easier, a lot of the time, if Nate would stop trying to pull his strings and make him do the heavy lifting just say what he wants. Maybe if he did that, fighting him would at least not feel so grossly reminiscent of the fights Wade had had with dear old Dad back in the day.

Speaking slowly, to emphasize that Nate’s being dumb, he says, “Yeah… You’re saying, what, I should have told him you broke up with me already and he woulda bothered to show up? Cuz you’re wrong, I was _not_ joking about his enthusiasm in getting the fuck out of Dodge the second I suggested hanging out with people other than us.”

“No, what -- Are you fucking serious?”

"Nate," Wade says, as seriously as he can when he's fighting the urge to either punch the idiot or laugh in his face. "I told you back when you were fingerblasting Frank's brain on the couch; I'm never gonna be jealous if you decide you wanna go steady with him. I'm pretty sure I can live with Lemon Demon permanently lodged in my brain."

The blank stare he gets is funny, in a sort of frustrating way. It's always the pop culture shit that throws him, and if he's thrown then Wade can get him distracted, angry, make him forget whatever serious thing he was trying to work up to. Because Wade doesn't want to hear -- he doesn't think he can take hearing -- Nate call a real, total stop to this thing they've been doing.

Emotions are hard. Wade's always had trouble making himself understood that way, because his way of expressing things was largely to circumvent the actual feeling, joke about it, tease at it, allude to it. It was easier when people couldn't stick their fingers in the actual wounds -- and it was even _better_ if there were actual, physical wounds to distract from the emotional shit entirely. With a mind reader like Nate he'd thought he'd have more trouble, but it turns out Nate's a lazy mother fucker who's willing to pick into people's brains and never learn anyone's tells because he can just stir their soup instead.

Can't do that with Wade.

"I mean who wouldn't wanna seal the deal there? Pro tip: get him to play bossy for you, that's the real treat."

Wade wants to say they'd deserve each other, two emotionally constipated militant assholes who only opened up when they were going to get laid, but he's aware enough that saying that is a pretty severe case of the pot calling the kettle black, and he _also_ knows Nate wouldn't hesitate to point that out, which would just lead them right back to talking about what they have, or had, or could have had but never really talked about so didn't really get.

"Keep an eye on your guns though, you know he's a size queen, the way he looks at--"

Carefully, moving so he doesn't risk tipping either of them off the building, Nate covers Wade's mouth, cupping the back of his head so he's trapped between his hands.  "Stop, Jesus Christ," he says, exasperated but sort of amused too. "Why the fuck do I find you so fucking attractive?"

"Because you're a kinky fucker and the future made you freaky," Wade answers, but his words are smothered into something incomprehensible by the press of metal fingers over his lips. For a moment, Wade entertains the thought of biting them, but he's broken his teeth on Nate's metal bits enough times to know it hurts him worse than Nate. Probably why he did it this way.

Smooth bastard.

There's a way Nate's got of looking at him that's serious and fond and tired and so... Well, Wade hates the look, because really what it is is _vulnerable_ , a look like that is like exposing a big raw wound and hoping the other person doesn't stick their fist into it. Nobody should look at Wade like that, not after he got himself turned into a pan-seared freak show and certainly not after Ness.

"Stop being an idiot for five minutes and listen to me," Nate says, and the look, whatever it's meant to say, becomes something less intense, softer, just fondness. Fondness is easy; you can be fond of all kinds of things without looking like you'd die for them. Wade can deal with Nate being fond of him. "I am not looking to seal anything with Frank. I like what he and I have just the way it is. What I want to change is with you."

Goddamn him. Fucking wait for Christmas to have this fucking conversation. Wasn't moving out and taking all his shit with him message enough?

Wade wracks his brain, trying to remember if he's fucked up bad since the China job. It had taken months, _months_ , to get back into Nate's good graces, and even then half of it was just Nate needing someone to help his eco-terrorism shit who wasn't going to die if things went sideways -- and things usually went sideways with Nate.

They had a good thing. Sometimes Nate spent the night in the apartment now, even; he'd wake up and use the shower and cook breakfast. It wasn't the same -- it wasn't as _good_ as him living there full-time, but it took a lot of the loneliness out of things. Where Frank got all hard-eyed and tense at the mere _mention_ of the boyfriend-word, Wade had never even been able to tease about it with Nate. It was too close to home when the guy lived with him, told him to pick his shit up, looked after him when he got bad-hurt.

Calling what they'd had before Wade fucked it up a relationship had been... it had been like moving too far too fast, it made Wade feel dizzy with want-hope-anxiety. He liked hearing other people say it, but he could play it as a joke; it was a joke when Frank called Nate his boyfriend, a way of Frank poking fun at him. Weasel calling him Nate's wife was a joke. It was all very funny, a hilarious joke he didn't dare repeat for fear of botching it.

Now he's sitting watching Nate strip gears trying to kill the remnants of that thing, tell him he was done, and Wade doesn't even know why. He knows he fucks a lot of things up -- number one talent, honed all his life -- but he's always put more effort into working with Nate, instead of against him.

"I think Frank's right," Nate says, and Wade feels something in his brain snap like a glow stick. He can almost feel his grey matter sliding out his ears. "We're good together, Wade. Always were. And I miss you."

The hand slips off his mouth. He feels precarious, like he’s standing on the ledge and easing toward a long fall, rather than still firmly, safely seated. The cement under his ass is freezing cold and the hand still resting against his neck is too. Nate’s breath is steaming the air and his lips shake a little with each exhale, all the colour in his face drained to just the high points, because it’s really, really fucking cold out. They shouldn’t be up here, it’s too fucking cold to be outside and they’re neither one of them wearing coats.

Details. Stupid little details. The way Nate’s eye flickers when he’s trying to hide anxiety, when he’s worried or getting towards anger. The way he almost certainly shaved -- he shaved every damn morning when he was living in the second bedroom here, straight razor and foam, a fucking treat to watch -- but his jaw was already coated in stubble, wire bristle that felt like it was coarse enough to strip skin from bone. Wade always wanted to rub his face against that jaw, rub all over his stupid hardbody frame like a damn cat in heat.

No stupid fanny pack. No hipster scarf-cape thing to flip dramatically. No giant gun to compensate for being so short. Just Nate, sitting out in the cold, watching Wade’s brains drip metaphorically out the hole blasted through his skull by a simple handful of words.

“I think this is supposed to be the part where you kiss me,” Wade offers helpfully. “You know, while I’m speechless.”

“Get your ass inside and I’ll kiss you all you want.”

“You drive an obnoxiously hard bargain,” Wade says, easing back from the ledge and half-falling back onto the roof. He feels Nate’s telekinetic shit grab him, thinks, stupidly, that the world would be a lot cooler if superpowers were all shiny and colourful like in the comics. Of course, in the comics, everyone’s backstory is _so_ complicated and takes so much more time to digest.

Nate helps him get on his feet even though he hadn’t let him really fall, and they stand way too close, face to face, for Wade not to feel like the leading lady in a romcom about to get her big damn kiss, except, again, unlike the comics, his counterpart is fucking shorter than him, and so unlike the lady in a romcom, Wade has to be the one to lean down and that always makes him laugh because _fuck_ Nate is short.

“Comics-you got murdered by like, a twelve year old,” he informs, and Nate huffs and he could shove him back or he could walk away or he could tell Wade to shut the fuck up, but instead he grabs Wade be the collar of his special ugly sweater and he yanks him down the last little bit and kisses him.

Kisses him like he really did miss him.

 _That’s cute_ , he thinks, and this particular though he thinks is ‘yellow’. _Great place to fade to black._

It doesn’t though. Maybe the author’s after a certain word count; Wade doesn’t know or particularly care. He cares a whole hell of a lot more about the way Nate’s hands are both so cold on his face, the way he kisses like it’s important to get right, no nonsense.

"Get in the fucking building so I can give you your present," Nate growls into his mouth, and Wade has to laugh at that, laugh at how tough-guy snarly Nate makes himself even when he's kissing Wade so sweet.

"Is it really romance if you're not willing to risk a little frost bite to do me on the roof?" Wade asks, bouncing his hairless eyebrows and enjoying the stupid look of Nathan Summers trying not to laugh. "If you love me, you'd raw me in the snow."

"Just because you can grow your dick back if it freezes off doesn't mean I wanna see it," Nate says, and now he _does_ shove, pushing Wade toward the door and the stairs, toward the apartment and the warm inside. "You have a comfortable place to get fucked and you'd rather play exhibitionist. Fucking degenerate."

Nate says 'fucking degenerate' like other people say 'darling', 'sweetheart', 'babyluv'; he says it like its a pet name, special just for Wade. It's hard to miss the affection when Wade knows to look for it, when it makes something spark in Wade's brain, light up and catch everything else on fire, blazing hot with all those feel-good chemicals. There's cocaine and there's Nate calling him names, and Wade knows which high he's going to be chasing the rest of his life.

He doesn't doubt that it won't last. Nate's an egotistical control freak with a messiah complex and Wade's an impulsive murderer with anger issues and a laundry list of mental illnesses. They're gonna fight and they're gonna fight ugly, and all these feel good moments are gonna come back to bite him in the ass the way they always do. The comics get that part right, at least.

Or maybe the movie gets that right from the comics?

At the very least, the fucking fanfiction gets it right. Half that shit needs the angst tag highlighted and written bold, because everybody loves a little misery when it's not theirs.

They'll fuck this up. Wade knows. He knows it the way he knows everything else; with perfect assurance, perfect certainty in it being part of the immutable makeup of the world. It's better to assume the worst, after all, and be pleasantly surprised when you end up with slightly better than what you braced for.

The apartment door opens as they approach, and shuts behind them the second Nate chases him through, and just like that, Wade's shoved up against the wall, invisible hands shoving his wrists up over his head, keeping him stretched out straight for Nate. Hands, real, cold and rough and _wonderful_ , slip under his ugly sweater and feel him up, thumbs stroking where his nipples would be if god and the makeup guy had been kinder (or better at their jobs).

"For the record," Nate says, leaning in to mouth at the lumpy, gross skin of Wade's neck, "Frank felt bad about not being able to come, but he really did have work to do."

"Uh-huh," Wade says, trying really hard not to whine as Nate slowly bites into the skin, closing his teeth together with inexorable pressure. "You got excuses for everyone who didn't show up?"

"Only the ones who asked me to bring you presents," Nate says, warming his fingers in Wade's armpits, which is fucking cruel when one hand is metal that's been in freezing temperatures for the better part of an hour at least. Wade wiggles, writhes against the wall, trying to get away from the cold or get more of the hot press of teeth, switched to the other side of his neck now.

"Has Frank figured out you’re a sadist yet," Wade asks when the bastard pulls away and heads off into the apartment, leaving Wade pinned by an invisible grip, the underside of one arm stinging with the cold from the fucking metal hand. He can't help appreciating the sight of Nate walking away though, the tight shirt and ass-hugging jeans making just the prettiest picture. "A sadistic peacock!"

"Sweetheart, nobody's figured that out yet but you," Nate says when he comes back, smug as all hell as he holds up a plain cream-coloured envelope with Wade's name scrawled on the front. Frank has terrible handwriting, which Wade thinks is hilarious for a marksman of his caliber.

When Wade tries to make grabby hands, Nate shifts his telekinetic grip so it swallows his hands too, but he makes it feel like fingers lacing with Wade's, so that's kind of nice, in a controlling-bastard kind of way. Nate just leans against the wall across from Wade and pops the seal on the envelope, pulling out the card inside.

It's not a fancy card. It looks like one of those cards you find at the post office when you forgot Mom's birthday and were going to pick up a package anyway so you need something off the rack and don't care too much about artistic quality. The picture on the front is two birds -- it takes Wade a second to realize that they were probably originally both white, but someone had taken the time to draw over the one on the left in black marker, and the one on the right in bright red pen. Now it's a red bird and a black bird sitting together on a branch over the words 'Peace on Earth'.

Nate makes a show of opening the card and reading the contents to himself, even though Wade would put money on it that he was sitting there while Frank decided what to write, so whether Frank told him or not, he knew already.

When he turns it to Wade, Wade finds himself honestly struck dumb for a minute.

It's very obvious that the card was originally blank inside. There's no pre-written greeting, no attempt at a pun, no gag. This is a real post-office special, completely blank-inside, plenty of room to share your feelings.

And Frank has written, in big, bold, chisel-tip Sharpie letters, one word.

"WOOF".

Wade bursts out laughing, but there's a feeling in his gut and creeping around his heart that's tight and warm and sweet, not very funny at all. He can't think of a single other time Frank has ever really tried to be _funny_ with him. Tease him, sure, play into Wade's own jokes, absolutely, but make his own wholesale joke?

Honestly, Wade hadn't thought he had it in him.

"A Christmas miracle," he says, and it's easy to pretend the wetness building at the corners of his eyes is just from laughing so hard. He can't stop thinking about the time it took Frank to sit down and colour the front of the card. Peace on Earth. The 'woof'. The whole thing is a joke, but it's also something else, something Wade decides he's not going to try to put words to, because if he puts words to this thing, it'll get fucked up. "I wanna hang it on the fridge."

"We can do that," Nate says, stepping back in close, letting the telekinesis fade to nothing as he brings his flesh had to Wade's face, sweeping a thumb under one eye to smear away the tears building there. "He said to tell you he has no plans for New Years Eve, if, and I quote, 'you're not throwing any fucking parties that day'. I'm inclined to suggest keeping your social calendar open."

Wade's laugh is breathless, getting his hands on Nate again, feeling over the hard, uneven planes of his back. That's one thing about Nate Wade could never get from Frank, the one big positive. Frank had scars -- pretty gnarly ones, some of them -- but he was still a hot guy with a few marks on him that, if anything, added a little extra spice. Nate's got a thick zippered seam of scar tissue down the middle of his chest, all down his stomach, over one sharp hip and biting into his thigh.

And all that metal. All that beautiful, sexy metal.

Frank maybe didn't ever bitch about how ugly Wade was, told him constantly to take his mask _off_ rather than put it back _on_ , liked to fuck with the lights on for some reason (Wade assumed paranoia, which was fair since people really were out to get him), but Frank was always going to be an outsider to the condition of being fundamentally fucked-up looking.

"You're so fucking hot, it's absolutely not fair," Wade groans, getting a handful of Nate's ass before tugging on the back of Nate's shirt. "Take your shirt off. Ooh, you could fuck me under the Christmas tree!"

"I'm not fucking you on that goddamn side table," Nate says, long-suffering and exasperated. He does, however, compliantly peel the too-tight shirt off and toss it toward the living room. "You'll break the damn table and half the shit hanging off that twig you're calling a tree are glass, and I'm not fucking you in broken glass. I'm gonna fuck you in my bed, properly."

"I cannot believe you are so hot and yet so incredibly boring. Frank would fuck me on the table."

"Frank is incapable of disobeying a direct order if he doesn't immediately see some catastrophic failing to it," Nate says, pulling Wade through the living room and down the hall, shoving him down on the firm, softly squeaking mattress in his too-clean room. "And as you already pointed out, Frank wants to wear a dog collar and be called a good boy while you ride his dick. I'm only interested in a third of those things."

"The good boy bit?" Wade guesses, arching up to help as Nate tugs his hideous leggings off. It's like peeling a second skin off, and feels about as good -- Wade's always thought it would feel good to peel off your skin, if it weren't for all those pesky nerve endings. "Sorry, I just can't see you in a collar."

"You riding me," Nate says patiently, and Wade feels another burst of stupid pleasure light up in his brain, that so-good-it-hurts tightness crawling back into his heart and making a home there. Who else is so patient with Wade after this long, after sitting out in the freezing cold talking him down from a world-class mope. "You can call me a good boy if you want, but Frank might get jealous when I tell him."

"Why is that so hot?" Wade asks, hooking his legs around Nate's waist, trying to drag him closer. "Like seriously, what is it about the thought of you telling on me to Frank such a turn on. I can see his grumpy face already, getting all heated while he pretends he's not turned on. Why does that turn me on? Like am I just fucked up? Help me out here, Nate, does that get your assorted robo-bits revving?"

"Does the place that collar place make gags?"

Wade tries to find the words to call Nate a sweet-talker, but what comes out of his mouth is something garbled rushed, Nate choosing that moment to press their dicks together, wrap his big metal hand around them both, and squeeze.

It's a lot. The metal, the heat and eager hardness of Nate's stupidly-good-looking cock. the way Nate's hand is a little too dry and clutching a little too hard. Wade thinks anyone would have made that gasp-y, breathless little noise he just made, so he's not losing any manly points there.

Nate only jacks them like that for a second before letting them go so he can spit in his hand, big glob of wet that should be gross but continues to be absurdly hot, just like every other time he's put on this particular show. There's something about the gruff, gritty, rough-n-rowdy thing that just really does it for Wade these days.

"Thought you wanted me to ride you," Wade manages, arching up again, trying to thrust into the choke hold on their dicks.  "God I was, I was really lookin' forward to that, little Christmas spin..."

"Don't worry," Nate says, keeping up that steady, tight motion with his hands, the glow of his shiny eye glinting as he grins. "You'll get your chance. First I wanna watch you make a mess all over that abomination you call a sweater."

"It's dry clean only," Wade whines, knowing even as he complains that he's going to do absolutely nothing to stop it from happening. There are few pleasures in the world greater than a perfectly hideous sweater on Christmas, but nutting all over said sweater is sure to be one such.

And Nate knows it. Wade knows he knows it, even if he can't read his mind, because Nate's made a goddamn _career_ out of ruining the uglier bits of Wade's wardrobe with various fluids. Mostly cum, though one memorable occasion had included chocolate body paint _and_ wax. It’s hard to have any kind of self control with Nate, the way he sort of commands the whole room, the easy way he looks at Wade, hungry and fond and open.

Nate bares his teeth, shuffling in closer, so his legs are up flush to the bed and Wade can lock his ankles just above his ass, and Wade watches orgasm rip it’s way through him, feels every moment of it. Nate’s cock twitches as hot cum splashes over Wade’s stomach, and Nate doesn’t miss a beat, thumb circling rough to smear hot, silky wet over the heads of both their cocks, and that’s it. That’s really all she wrote; Wade couldn’t hold back his orgasm if he tried.

He groans, arching and gasping, as Nate milks him, every bit splattered over the front of a perfectly hideous sweater. The world will never see it’s like again, and Wade’s pretty sure it’s ruined for good because like hell is he going to ask the poor gals at the dry cleaning place he likes to take cum out of a sweater that already looks like the Ghost of Christmas Kitsch died on it.

To add insult to wardrobe injury, Nate bends over and picks up Wade’s equally hideous leggings and wipes his hands off on them, stepping easily out of the grip of Wade’s legs while Wade’s post-cumming-his-brains-out boneless.

“You’re a monster,” Wade says affectionately, and huffs a laugh when Nate shrugs a shoulder and nods agreeably. “You should be glad you got me hooked with your future-dick-magic because you are just the _worst_.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Nate says, sounding extremely unconcerned as he shucks his own jeans, and his boxers, standing in all his splendor before his dresser, digging around for the lube he kept stashed there even now. Wade thinks about telling him he left it in the bathroom last time, then decides he likes it better when Nate figures it out himself, because then he gets to watch the lube come flying in like magic to Nate’s hand. “But I’m all _yours_.”

**Author's Note:**

> And that is it! That is the end of Quid Pro Quo, but it's not the end of me slamming these massive meaty boys and their massive idiot personalities into one another. It's just the end of anyone pretending anything about this has to do with exchanging favours or keeping even. We're switching themes, so I'm changing series. Think of Quid Pro Quo as season one of the GUNTP. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and encouraging me to have fun with this series, it's really been a blast.


End file.
